


and then we'll carry on again

by snowdarkred



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Self-cest, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdarkred/pseuds/snowdarkred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam feels like he's dreaming. Maybe he is. There's a voice floating in the back of his head that tells him that he should be dreaming, that what he is seeing now isn't be real, but when you've lived the life he has, that voice doesn't count for much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and then we'll carry on again

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a loooooonnnnggggg time ago - posted originally [here](http://high-flyer87.livejournal.com/143233.html?view=756865#t756865) and [here](http://snowdarkred.livejournal.com/55602.html) as a gift to [misshighflyer](misshighflyer.tumblr.com). I cannot vouch for how close or unclose it is to canon, so.
> 
> This is all Jessica's fault.

Sam feels like he's dreaming. Maybe he is. There's a voice floating in the back of his head that tells him that he  _should_  be dreaming, that what he is seeing now isn't be real, but when you've lived the life he has, that voice doesn't count for much.   
  
He's staring into his eyes. He is staring into his own eyes. But they aren't. They're dead eyes, even deader than they had been in the middle of everything, with Ruby and the demon blood and the whispered promises that were nothing but lies. He feels like that should mean something, but it's like there's this wall in his head, a fence that cordons off all the important parts. He can't think straight; all he feels is the familiar burn of guilt, although he can't place it to an action. He can't place anything right now. It's like someone's thrown a fuzzy blanket over his head and he's seeing the world through the weave. Something's not right.  
  
His eyes blink. Or, he watches his eyes blink. Something.  
  
Sam looks at the rest of his face now. There's something wrong with it. It doesn't look like he remembers. It's thinner, colder. Wrong. It looks like him, on the surface, except for all the ways it doesn't.   
  
There's hate in his eyes. He knows that; it's only part of this that makes sense. It's the same expression he saw every day in the mirror for years, after everything - after Jess, John, Madison, Brady. Loathing.   
  
"Why," the other Sam hisses. "Why are you so fucking important? What makes you so much better than me?"   
  
Sam doesn't really understand. "I'm me," he says, although that doesn't answer anything. He doesn't really know what the other Sam is asking. "I don't know why. I just. I."  
  
The other Sam – cold, God, his eyes are so  _cold_  – looms closer, and now Sam kind of understands why people find him intimidating. He's a scary bastard. He has a feeling that he's seen something like this before, but it's trapped under the fuzzy blanket – or was it behind a wall? – like everything else. "Why does he want you back so fucking much?"  
  
And there's the thing: Sam's been standing here, staring at himself, not understanding, for the whole time. Floating. Like he's not connected to anything at all. But when the other Sam says this, it's like fishing line hooks on his brain and leads him to...something. Dean.   
  
 _Dean._   
  
"I'm his brother," Sam says, and he's struck by the naked jealousy on the other Sam's face. There's something there, something that he should remember, but he can't....   
  
The other Sam reaches for him, but Sam doesn't move away. He lets it happen.   
  
Lips. His own lips. He's kissing himself, but he's not, really, because this Sam, this duplicate, isn't him. The kiss is hard and unforgiving, and it takes and takes and takes, until Sam can't feel anything but the other Sam's hands on him, the other Sam's tongue harsh against his mouth.   
  
"You'll never be enough," the other Sam whispers. "You'll never be enough again."  
  
And then he can't feel anything at all.   
  
When he wakes up, Dean is there, white faced with worry, and Sam feels a weird itch at the back of his mind, like the blood-lust but worse - like the other Sam had graffitied on something important. But he doesn't know what it is.


End file.
